


A Short Prelude

by Kahvi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:12:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1441315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People often speculate on Sherlock and Sally's past. Some claim they were friends. Some say they always rubbed one another the wrong way. Some are convinced they slept together, others say she wouldn't sleep with him, or he wouldn't sleep with her. Some say he propositioned her, or she propositioned him, and the other got offended. </p><p>The thing is, they're all right. And all wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Short Prelude

The address was for a studio in a really skevvy part of Soho, which slightly surprised Sally as she made her way through it. She'd only known the man a few months, but everything about Sherlock; his clothes, the way he spole and the way he held himself screamed 'posh' - yet here she was, wading through binbags and guys giving her dirty looks. That was almost funny, considering. Almost.

It got slightly better as she got closer to the place itself, and part of Sally wondered if that wasn't entirely due to chance. She rang the doorbell, but there was no answer. She frowned; he had to be there; he'd just helped them wrap up a major case, and Greg said he rarely left home when he wasn't working. Well, he did have other things to do than stick his nose into Scotland Yard's business, much as it might not seem like it. She was about to give up when the door swung open, and she was bathed in grey-green scrutiny. _Fuck_ , this had been a bad idea; he could see right through her, that much was obvious.

"Not interested," his dark voice boomed, and _shite_ , that wasn't helping.

"Not interested in what?"

Sherlock didn't roll his eyes, but he didn't have to; they spoke volumes of scorn without moving so much as an inch.

" _What_ ," Sally persisted. She wasn't about to let him go that easily. 

"I'm not going to have sex with you."

Sally took an involuntary step backwards, her left heel nearly snagging on the step. She huffed as she - literally and metaphorically - regained her balance. "You... you think I'd haul myself down here to fucking _proposition_ you on your doorstep?"

Sherlock looked calmly back at her. "Yes," he said, with finality. 

"On your _doorstep_." 

"You say that like it's not decent."

Sally shook her head. She didn't think there was anything _remotely_ decent about Sherlock. Quite a lot of things about him were _in_ decent, though; chief among them his starved-skinny body and that impossible face, and well, if he was human enough to drink coffee and smoke - which he did far too often; the flat stank of it, all the way out to here - he surely had other human urges. As did Sally, and this job didn't exactly make dating easy. Really, it was this or Philip again, and she'd promised herself she'd stop replying to his needy mightnight texts now that he was married. All they'd ever had in common anyway was the job. At least, with Sherlock, she wouldn't have to narrowly avoid him in the cafeteria the next morning. Just at crime scenes. Oh, fuck it. "All right," she said, "fair enough." He was wearing a burgundy shirt that - impossibly - seemed too tight on him; the buttons straining as he held the door open. She tore her eyes away and turned, and that, to her great surprise, was when a hand landed on her shoulder.

"I suppose we could discuss it."

He'd never touched her before. "Yeah, all right," she found herself saying. "Why don't we?"

* * *

"You'll laugh," Sally said, thinking _no, you wouldn't_ , "but half the office recons you're gay."

As predicted, Sherlock did not laugh. In fact, he barely moved a muscle, merely watched her intently from the sofa opposite Sally's chair.

"You're not though, are you?" It wasn't quite a question.

"Does it matter?"

She considered that. Well, she had an aunt who she used to think was her uncle, and she'd kissed a girl in college (but then, who hadn't); it took all kinds, she supposed. "Maybe not."

Sherlock sighed. "I should have told you right away; there will be no question of mutual intimacy."  
Sally frowned. "Then what..."

"Like I said, I'm not interested." Maybe it was that smug, immobile not-quite-grin, but Sally suddenly felt like punching his face in.

"Oh, come _on_. You're human, I know you are. You take a piss, just like the rest of us, and I've heard you even eat, when the mood strikes you. Why should this be any different?"

Sherlock blinked, uncrossing his legs. Then he looked down, crossing them again; she'd actually managed to make him _uncomfortable_. By talking about sex? "Never had the interest," he muttered, examining the floorboards.

"What; _never?_ "

"No." He lifted his head to look at her askew. "That surprises you."

"Yeah, it surprises me! You don't mean to tell me you're a virgin?"

The floorboards got a quick round of scrutiny, before Sherlock's eyes flickered up again. "You should go. This isn't getting us anywhere."

"No," Sally said, quickly, "I'm... sorry." The word was bitter, but nessecary. This was far too interesting not to follow through. 

"Just what, exactly, is it you're proposing?"

This seemed to calmed him. All business again, his face that familiar mask of nothing, Sherlock leaned forward. "You have access to information."

A lump grew in Sally's throat. Fuck, no. This was wrong on so many levels. "I can't..."

"I'm not asking you to reveal anything. Why would I want that? Anything you lot manage to dig up, I already know. I have access to anything I need."

Oh yes, he did, Sally groused, internally. She sometimes wondered what had made him Lestrade's little golden boy. All right. Not so little. She nodded, faintly.

"I'm merely suggesting that we could be mutually beneficial to one another. Thus far, you've been working against me. Don't try to deny it; there's no use being polite, here. It's no real obstacle, but it's annoying. I'd much rather have an ally. Someone who... likes me."

Sally felt her face set in what she thought of as her 'professional expression'. Jesus. The way he'd said 'likes' - as though it were a virulent disease he was hoping not to catch. She had to stop this; there were things going on here that were far from all right. "All right," she heard herself repling.

Sherlock smirked. "Excellent. Now, as for what I can offer in return." He shifted again, spreading his legs and leaning back against the sofa.

"Yes?" It took effort, even just that little word.

"As you so kindly pointed out, I _am_ human. Just because I don't find anyone attractive doesn't mean I don't have urges." His hand... oh _fucking hell_ ; his hand was moving, lazily, towards the fly of his trousers. That, however, was nothing compared to what he _said_ : "You strike me, Sergeant Donovan, as someone who likes to _observe_."

Sally's eyes must have dwelled there a _little_ too long, because that disgusting smirk only grew wider. Sherlock rubbed two ridiculously long, elegant fingers along the seam of his fly, then raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, _come on_. Do you honestly think I'm about to put on a show for you, right here and now? Pull my trousers down for you?"

Sally glared. Now he was just being rude. 

"I suppose I _might_. I've never been all that bothered about nudity, to tell you the truth." He popped the first two buttons with an obscene flick of his wrist.

"I propositioned you on your doorstep, didn't I?"

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "You know, I rather admire that. People get so caught up in the emotionality of what is, when you get right down to it, simple bodily functions and attraction. Your approach is much more pragmatic." He played at the third button. Like a question. Or a challenge. Well, if he thought she were bluffing, he was in for a surprise.

"You're not stopping there, are you?"

He smiled again, resting his palm firmly on his crotch. "Perhaps you'd like to kiss me?"

Sally caught herself _just_ too late to realize this was another test; a trap, to get just that startled gasp she hadn't been able to fend off. "Why?" She managed, trying her best to look nonplussed. All in all, she thought, this was rather a fun game. _One that had to stop. This is exactly what had happened with Phillip. Well, OK. Not exactly._

Sherlock shrugged. "People often want to."

"People?" That was interesting.

"Trying to get some inside information for the office poll?"

"It's none of my business."

"I've kissed people," he repeated, and stood. "Well, what'll it be? It's a fair offer, don't you think?" His hand was still on his crotch. He took the required two steps forward. Leaned towards her. OK. Enough.  


"No deal."

His mouth curled. Surprise? Maybe. Who knew? "Cold feet?"

"No. There _is_ no deal. What you're asking is for is friendship, OK? That doesn't have a price. I'm not selling it."

He straightened. Pulled at badly tamed curls with jittery hands.

"I'm not _selling_ anything! I'm here because I like you. And sure, yeah, I'd like to fuck you, but I only do that with people I like. And only," she added, wondering if she still had that bottle of wine in the fridge, because she was going to need a drink when she came home, "if they've done it once or twice before. I'm not going to make you have sex with me so I'll be your friend."

Sherlock glanced at the packet of cigarettes on the table. Blinked. "That wasn't the arrangement." God knows what she thought she'd find when she came here. Not this, certainly. This was not the man who giggled at bodies and cheered at severed limbs. Or perhaps it was. Which made it worse, really.

"Whatever. Friendship isn't for sale, Sherlock. At least I'm not selling it."

"Then kindly leave."

She did, throwing him the cigarettes as she passed them. He followed her to the door, like a stray dog, wondering why it hadn't been kicked. "I'm not selling it," she said again, hand on the door, foot already through it.

"Yes, you said. Goodbye. Lovely evening."

"I'm giving it away."

"Oh, for goodness's sake. I wasn't looking for someone to paint my nails and go shopping with; I was trying to establish an inside connection in the Yard."  
"No, you weren't."

"Please go away."

"OK. For now."

She got nearly to the end of the litter-strewn, wee-smelling stairs down to the tube, just where the connection tended to cut off, before he texted her:

_Nothing is unconditional._

_I didn't say it was,_ she texted back, grinning in the flickering light. _Keep on being a misogynist bastard, and I'll have to reconsider._

* * *

As it turned out, she had two bottles in her fridge. One half-empty. Or maybe, she considered as she poured out a glass, half-full.


End file.
